A Fountain Filled With Blood

“I take pride in my resorts. I build ’em right and I try to be as environmentally sensitive as possible.” The protestors jeered. “If you don’t want us here, call in the DEP and we’re gone. But don’t send a bunch of scientifically illiterate witches after me!” He thrust the microphone into the stand with enough force to set it rocking, stalked to the rear of the platform, and leaped down, disappearing from view.

The babble of the crowd was deafening. Mayor Jim Cameron visibly wavered between snatching the microphone or running after Ingraham. The urge to apologize to the developer must have won out, because he let himself down over the rear of the platform and also vanished.

Russ, who must have unloaded his mother on Officer Flynn, strode back to the front of the platform. He didn’t bother with a microphone, simply cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “You people are demonstrating without a permit. You must disperse now. Anyone who fails to disperse peaceably will be arrested.” The central knot of protestors promptly sat down and started singing “We Shall Overcome.” Clare could see Russ’s lips moving, but it didn’t look like he was saying anything fit for public consumption.

She heard the siren of another police car. Time to get out of here. She had to keep her head down and use her elbows aggressively to wedge her way between bodies. Very few people seemed inclined to leave before the show was over.

“Certainly the most interesting thing to happen on the Fourth of July since that streaker in ’seventy-nine, don’t you—”

“No proof that any of the stuff is coming from the development site.”

“—with husbands supporting them and too much time on their—”

“Thank God somebody has enough guts to stand up to the Board of—”

“You said the same thing when they did the Million Mom March, and you were wrong then, too.”

“He’s not gonna be a problem after tonight, is he?”

Those words, accompanied by a little laugh, raised the hairs on the back of Clare’s neck. She stopped dead, turning to see who had spoken. A pair of parents bore down on her, arms full of squirming children, and she was pushed out of the way. By the time they passed, the crowd had shifted around her again. She had no idea whose gravelly, gloating voice had made a simple sentence sound like a threat. That group of teenage boys? They looked too young. That man with his wife? Too old. She rubbed her forehead with the heel of her hand. She was losing it. The attacks, and now this public pandemonium, had tipped her over the edge. She continued working her way to the back of the crowd, holding fast to the thought of her car, a warm sweatshirt, and a peaceful ride back to her quiet rectory. Small-town rural parish indeed. She should have asked the bishop for combat pay before coming to Millers Kill.

When Clare got home, the first thing she did was shower until her hot water ran out. She had never been so cold on a Fourth of July in her life. Then she wrapped herself tightly in a full-length terry-cloth robe identical to a monk’s habit, complete with cowl. It had been a gift from her brother Brian, who over the years had also given her a clock in the shape of an Apache helicopter, a pair of army tap-dancing boots, and a recruiting poster featuring Michelangelo’s God and the words I WANT YOU. She had just eased a half pound of linguine into a pot of boiling water in preparation for a carb fest when her phone rang.

“Clare? Russ. I need you to do me a favor.”

His voice was strangely hushed. “Russ? Where are you?”

“At the Washington County Jail.”

“What are you doing at the jail?” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realized how inane they sounded. “I mean, I thought you’d be back on patrol.”

“It’s my mother,” he said, his voice as grim as she’d ever heard it. “I’m trying to get her out.”

She decided not to mention that he had been the one to put his mom there in the first place. “Is there some sort of delay with the bail bondsman? Does she have to wait for a hearing or something?”

“I put up her damned bond myself. She won’t accept it! She says she’s a damned prisoner of conscience and she’s not leaving until she gets to make a public appearance before a judge!” He was practically hissing at this point. “’Scuse my French,” he added.

“Why are you whispering?” she said, involuntarily whispering, as well.

“I’m calling you from the booking room. There are about a dozen cops and guards here, and every one of ’em knows I arrested my own mother for disorderly conduct. You know what she kept calling me in front of the bondsman?” He dropped his voice further. “ ‘Sweetie!’ I’m never gonna live this down.”

She bit the inside of her lip. When she knew she could speak without a trace of laughter in her voice, she said, “What do you need me to do?”

“Get the dogs.”

“The dogs?”